Moulin Rouge dans le style d'Aile Gundam
by Czarina of the Cosmos
Summary: Moulin Rouge in the Style of Gundam Wing: A recasting Extravaganza! Yaoi abound- it should be spectacular


Moulin Rouge dans le style d'Aile Gundam : une Fantaisie de Refonte

Moulin Rouge in the style of Gundam Wing: A Recasting Extravaganza!

Diclaimer: staaaaaaaaaaaaaaandard. Oh. And, er, my apologies. Please tell me whether or not to continue the story[abomination]. Thanks. It was just. . .so easy. Btw, when I say "starvings" I mean starving artists.

______________________________Moulin Rouge_____________________________________

A La Gundam Wing

Quatre could not believe his wretched luck (or lack there of). The young man had traveled abroad so many times before, and yet this time, this time he wanted it to be forever. He would not return home to his disapproving father, or the beautiful, lonely sands of the dessert. This time he would stay where he was, and write the greatest story of all! The most timeless classic, the most wonderful lamentable tale of all time! He had no money, and he could ask for none, and not from any source. He had no clothes save one suit for travel and one oversized and old white dress shirt he slept in. He had next to nothing. He needed next to nothing! He was a writer! A musician! He would throw his lot in with the starvings, but he would succeed!

He looked out the window pane (one lacking glass), at the span of Paris. It was beautiful in its misery and poverty, the ashen colors and cold corroding brick. Montmartre stood behind the building he now resided in, great and beautiful over the tawdry existence of la butte. It was thrilling, to be surrounded by such urban wonders! Quatre could easily recognize his own naiveté, but had decided long ago that it was setting out in the world that would rid him of it, and that he would not let it stand in his way.

His luck was just fine for the first two days he was in Paris, and getting settled in his less-than-sanitary-flat. It was on the third day, in the morning when he woke up to no food, no money, no lithe body next to his, and no idea in his lovely head that the word "wretched" had attached itself to his savior. Wretched luck. Well, bugger.

It was frightening how quickly the novelty of a new place wore off when one realized one's prospects were exceptionally dim. He stared at the typewriter in front of him with a blank face, cursing, cursing, silently cursing the muses for having so swiftly and cruelly abandoning him. Well, fine! He'd write a garbled mountain of crap, just to spite them. Starting with "Once upon a time". Ha! But he winced as he typed the words, and had to stop, rip the page out, crumple it, and toss it.

He then realized that had been his last piece of paper and felt even more dejected than he had before. It was also right then that there was a clamor from the space upstairs, and someone fell through his ceiling, and landed beside his desk, entirely unconscious.

". . . . ." He said intelligently, gaping at the snoring figure coated in dust and wood bits.

"He's gone again!" Came a voice from above his head. He looked up to see a stunningly handsome young man with green eyes the color of dark emeralds looking down through the hole in the ceiling. He looked at Quatre, noting the younger man's eyes, hair, face. Lovely. "Here now. Could you poke him or something?"

"Like that'd do anything, anyway." Came another, sour voice. A young man who was definitely from the Orient- Quatre became even more interested- glanced down into the hole from over the brunette's shoulder. The green eyed man frowned. 

"Why does the narcoleptic have to be the lead anyway?"

"Because he's tallest."

". . .I'M tallest."

"Oh. Right. Because he's second tallest."

". . .. ." Quatre spoke up, not quite sure of his voice, but venturing all the same.

"Are you all quite all right? Ought'n't you to be more worried about your friend?"  
"Heero?" The young Chinese man replied. "He's indestructible. Why worry?"  
"Oh." Said Quatre, faintly puzzled.

"Here, what are you doing here? You look awfully bourgeois for this neighbor hood." The tone was friendly, almost flirting. Quatre blushed a bit and smiled at green-eyed man.

"Well, I've rather turned my back on my bourgeois upbringing and have journeyed here to become part of the center of la vie bohemia."

"Why's that, now?" the Chinese boy asked, smirking a little.

"Because my father's life for me has no place for my obsession with love and want for truth, freedom, and beauty."

The two young men in the ceiling nodded to each other and both offered an arm down. "Come on up!" quipped one. "My name? Is Trowa. Resident artist of the red windmill. This is WuFei."

Quatre took both their hands and they hauled him up with little difficulty. "Oh? And what is WuFei to the bohemian life?"

"He's otherly abled."

"Oh, shut up."

"We refer to what WuFei is as "inspiration"." 

"Barton . . ."

"WuFei's a resident performer."

"Performer?" Quatre asked innocently.

"Hnnph." WuFei hnnphed.

"What are you all doing up here?" Quatre asked, turning slowly and thoughtfully in his place to look at the makeshift mountain sets and the odd cans of paint and boxes of fabric lying about. How bizarre.

"Well," Trowa said, easing one hand onto the blonde's shoulder, "this is our set."

"Whatever for?"

"For the first bohemian musical spectacular ever!" It was odd to hear such exuberant tones coming from such a seemingly quiet person's mouth. But it was a lovely mouth, so Quatre didn't mind. Er, exuberance. Lovely exuberance.

Quite.

"But we're having troubles," said WuFei. 

"Only because you can't pay attention!" Snapped a new voice from behind the trio. Quatre spun fast, and the others merely turned, around to face a man a few years older than any of them, who wore rather delicate clothes and his platinum hair in a low ponytail that dipped between his shoulder blades. He sat a piano that looked. . .broken. . . and scowled.

"I can't pay attention?!" WuFei bit back a growl. "The narcoleptic's the one with the problem!"

"Oh shut up," came a pleasantly nasal voice from behind them. Quatre once again spun about, this time so fast that Trowa had to grab the boy by the shoulders, and hold him close so he wouldn't fall. Not that the unibanged minded. Not at all. Quatre's face was flushed with surprise and confusion at everything going on. And now, a new face emerged from the floor- his ceiling. A boy- no, young man- about his size, with deep, intense cobalt blue eyes and badly tousled, dark brown bangs. Actually, his whole head was a mess of lovely dark chocolate strands. Quatre felt himself blushing at being surrounded by four young men of such stunning aesthetic qualities. They seemed to have nice personalities, too.

They spoke a while longer, during which time Quatre learned that Trowa was the set designer, the artist, and the alcoholic. WuFei was the mystical Chinese healer who adored explosions (the bigger the better), and who's potions never worked, but he always had something philosophical and mildly chauvinistic to say to make you feel better or infinitely, infinitely worse. Zechs, a true Frenchman, was the musical coordinator and mildly (re: extremely) unsuccessful inventor. Heero was the one who set up WuFei's exploding projects, and was a narcoleptic actor and tango dancer, though how he learned to tango so well in Japan, they had not quite figured out.

The Bohos learned with equal interest that Quatre was a poet and musician and writer who had no money and was willing to do anything to get by. So, when Heero broke a bench by falling onto it head first from about eight feet up, falling deeply asleep fifteen seconds before impact, they shuffled Quatre into embarrassing costume and thrust him up to stand where Heero had stood- on a ladder in front of a cut-out mountain.

The bickered over lyrics, pounding out a sour tune (that clung viciously to its last vestiges of promise) for about five minutes, before Quatre, over "But it doesn't match the tune!" and "I don't think a nun would put it like that", sang out, effectively catching the attention of the very motley crew below him.

"The hills are alive with the sound of music." They stared. His voice was high (and male, for any of you fans of Orikasa Ai who are imagining it a bit too high), and clear. And wonderful, Trowa thought, mainly for the purpose of adding a nice little parallel to finish off the paragraph smoothly. I love my boys.

"Good!" Trowa said, eyes lighting. Behind them, Heero stirred awake. "Good," the unibanged said again. "More!"  
"With songs they have sung for a thousand years. . ."  
"Good! More! Zechs!" Zechs played the sour and twangy piano accompaniment.

"My heart will be blessed with the sound of music!" Quatre beamed down at Trowa, who smiled back.

"Quatre! Join our crew."

"How's that, again?" WuFei asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. Quatre was elated.

"Trowa!"  
"Be our writer, Quatre."

"Of course!" Heero clapped. Zechs nodded his approval and WuFei eyed Quatre. "That is acceptable. . ." Heero pushed past the shorter, black haired boy and offered a hand to the blond.

"Come on then. Trowa'll want to celebrate."

Trowa smiled, slipping an arm around Quatre's shoulders as he stepped off the ladder, next to Heero. "Of course I will! And I know just how."

Armed with a bottle of absinthe, they went to the roof to wait for the Moulin Rouge's wings to turn and the night crowds to start shuffling in.


End file.
